


Find Your Grail

by Reynier



Series: Caffè Arturiano [4]
Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Multi, Spamalot, musical theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier
Summary: “Priamus is putting on a production of some play called--”“It’s a musical,” corrected Priamus, beaming.“--some musical called Spamalot. You’re all gonna be in it.”There were some unhappy coughs. “We are?” said Galahad.
Relationships: Gareth/Lynette, Gawain & Priamus, Gawain vs. Dinadan
Series: Caffè Arturiano [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017424
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22
Collections: Arthurian_Server_Squad





	Find Your Grail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/gifts).



> im dead

“Did you know,” said Priamus, from his spot sprawled out on the couch with his head on Gawain’s lap, “that I have over ten years of community theatre experience?”

Gawain took a deep breath. “No,” he lied, “I didn’t.”

“Well, I do.”

“Oh?”

A look of graceless enthusiasm found its way onto Priamus’ normally cynical face. “And I was thinking,” he said, “ that I’ve never had a group of friends before.”

“Ah,” said Gawain.

“And it might be really fun to put on a musical.”

“Oh,” said Gawain. 

“Something like _Spamalot._ ”

“Hm,” said Gawain. 

Priamus squirmed around a bit until he was looking Gawain in the eyes with a worrying intensity. “Do any of you guys know how to sing?” he asked. 

Sighing, Gawain made a brief prayer to a deity he was fairly certain was called God, and carded his fingers through Priamus’ hair in an attempt to divert his wide-eyed stare. “I don’t,” he said carefully, “but we are friends with the members of world-famous folk rock band Play Not.”

“Oh?” The attempts at mild flirtation did not seem to be working on Priamus, which was concerning. “Do they know how to sing?”

“Um.” Gawain made a face. “Nominally?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Priamus said. “It’s about the friendship. And the bonding. And the opportunity to put you in a YMCA number.”

“Oh,” said Gawain, “okay. I get it. Sure, I’ll call up Iseult and the other two clowns and see if they want to be in your strip show.”

Priamus sniffed. “It’s not a strip show. It’s going to be _art._ ”

“Uh-huh.” Gawain leered at him. “Right.”

“Gawain, it’s very important that there are no misunderstandings here.” Priamus shot to a seated position, his legs tucked under him, and leaned in close. “I am utterly serious about this. It will have tech. It will have music. And I will be casting it entirely separate of any personal biases.”

“And what personal biases might those be?” said Gawain, looping an arm over Priamus’ shoulder. 

“Who I am or am not friends with.”

“You sure about that?” said Gawain, and attempted to lean in for a kiss but was diverted by a hand to the face. He mrowled like a cat and swatted at Priamus. “What was that for?

Priamus waved a finger at him. “I think it’s unethical for me to sleep with a member of the cast if I’m directing,” he pronounced. “So that will have to be on hold.”

“Alright,” Gawain said, bemused. 

“Anyway, we need a theatre, but more importantly--”

“How do you plan on getting a theatre?”

“Oh, I’ll get the money somehow,” Priamus said, waving a hand. “It’s the cast members I’m more concerned about. Can you help me convince them?”

“I’m not really sure there are many people with the requisite--”

Priamus widened his eyes in a passable impression of a puppy. “Please? For me, your very treasured friend?”

“Fine,” said Gawain, and already regretted it. Having friends was a mistake, he was sure. He should have just stuck with vaguely-antagonistic-one-night-stands. “How many people do you need?” Priamus smiled. 

“Alright, everyone, listen up!” yelled Gawain. He was standing on a table in _Lionheart Coffee Co._ \-- the chair hadn’t been high enough-- with his hands on his hips. “Here’s what’s happening!”

Customers and the other assorted staff members turned to stare at him balefully. Gawain talking at all was generally an ill omen; nothing could be gained by extra height. 

“Priamus is putting on a production of some play called--”

“It’s a musical,” corrected Priamus, beaming. 

“--some musical called _Spamalot._ You’re all gonna be in it.”

There were some unhappy coughs. “We are?” said Galahad.

“Yeah,” said Gawain, clapping his hands like a cheerleader. “Because I said so.”

“Yeah, well, uh.. how do you say...” Gaheris, from his corner of ambiguous commercial use, waved a hand. “Fuck you?”

“Fuck _you_!” said Gawain, flinging out an arm to point at him. “Any more questions?” Lancelot raised his hand. “When are auditions?” “Uh…” Gawain trailed off. 

“March 4th,” Priamus said helpfully. “Here.”

“Yeah,” Gawain said, “here.”

There was a rattling of boards as Perceval emerged from under the counter. “What is the play about?”

“No fucking clue!” Gawain said cheerfully. 

Priamus spread his arms wide and leant on the table at Gawain’s feet. “It’s about finding the Holy Grail.”

“I’m in,” said Galahad. “Do you have a choreographer?” “We do now. It’s also about hating the French.”

Mordred suddenly materialised next to him. “Yes,” he said, “yes. Yes.”

“But most importantly,” said Priamus, “it’s about tap-dancing.”

There was silence. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Lynette fist-pumped the air. “Yes!” she screeched, careening out from behind her corner table. “Yes, yes, yes! My time has come!”

“I love my girlfriend,” said Gareth, to no one in particular. 

The morning of March 4th dawned bright and clear, and a queue of perhaps two dozen people was waiting outside _Lionheart Coffee Co._ when Kay arrived at 7 AM. He paused and stared at them. “What the fuck are you all doing here this early?” he said. 

There was some nervous scuffling. “Uh… auditioning for _Spamalot_ ,” said Elaine eventually. “Priamus is directing? Did no one tell you about this?”

“No,” said Kay, “I was regretfully uninformed. Is there anything I can do to stop this right now and banish you all back to the depths of Hell from which you most assuredly crawled?”

“This is already Hell,” said Gaheris, “I had to prepare a 16-bar excerpt from a relevant musical. I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

“I think it’s fun,” said Elaine, “we’re going to get to dress up as knights and stuff.”

Lynette beamed at him from her place in the queue. “There’s going to be tap dancing!”

This was such a change from her normal attitude that Kay felt quite unsettled, and in his brief moment of discombobulation, Gawain appeared out of nowhere and snatched the keys from his hand. “Thanks,” he said, slotting them into the door. “Alright, everybody, let’s get this over with.”

They filed into the shop, ignoring Kay’s half-hearted protests and pleas to mind the furniture. Galahad made a beeline for the oft-neglected piano and perched behind it. “I’ll just… I’ll just play until you get a musical director, alright?” he said wistfully. 

“I have one,” Priamus said, settling behind the counter with his unnecessarily large pile of papers. “His name is Dinadan, apparently?”

“Oh,” said Galahad. “Ah. Fun.”

“He and a couple others are coming an hour late because, uh, they didn’t want to be here.”

“Right.” Galahad’s voice would have chilled lava. 

“Okay, everyone, listen up! I’m Priamus.”

The group made some vague mutterings to indicate that yes, they knew who he was. 

“I, uh, I don’t have a professional theatre background but I have been a part of multiple improv troupes.”

“I guess that’s why you’re so good at role--” Before Gawain could finish his sentence, Mordred tackled him from the side and they both tumbled onto the floor. No one paid them any mind. 

“So, uh, if you could all give your music to… Galahad, I guess?” Priamus waved a hand. “And just… sing your excerpts. Yeah! Let’s party!”

_Party_ was a generous term. The musical selections were varied and generally irrelevant; there was a strangely large amount of Carly Rae Jepsen. Lynette belted out a surprisingly passable rendition of “Make ‘Em Laugh” from _Singin’ In the Rain_ , Gawain at least remembered all the words to “Mein Herr,” and Lancelot tried very hard to stay on key for his inexplicable _Phantom of the Opera_ medley. That last confused Priamus the most.

“So…” He paused and peered at the sheet music Lancelot had handed to Galahad. “You stuck to the 16-bar limit, at least.”

Lancelot nodded fervently.

“You sang two bars from eight different songs, all from _Phantom of the Opera_.”

More nodding.

“Uh… I guess I just have to ask… _why_?”

“Well, I read the Wikipedia summary, and I think it’s a pep talk musical for being French.”

No one quite knew how to address that, so they just moved on. 

Gaheris, oddly, performed a deeply moving rendition of the final monologue from “Cell Block Tango.” Priamus was too enraptured to remind him that this was a singing audition. He culminated with jumping on a chair and yelling “Number seventeen, the spread eagle!”

“Wow,” said Priamus, once Gaheris had finished pretending to wipe blood off his hands, “that was… aggressive.”

Gaheris bowed but didn’t say anything else. 

It was at that moment that the door to the shop swung open dramatically, revealing two trench-coated figures and one leather-jacketed one. The trenchcoat in the lead pulled off her sunglasses (it was overcast) and, casting a glance around at the chaos, said: “Sorry we’re late.”

Gawain sighed. “Priamus, this is… these are… ugh.”

The second trenchcoat swaggered forward, his shoulder-length hair sweeping into his eyes. “I’m Tristan,” he said, “Gawain’s ex.”

“What?” Gawain sounded horrified. “What the fuck? No, you’re not.”

“Okay, well-- we--” Tristan frowned a bit. “Well, we had a thing.”

“Uh, yeah.” Aggravaine flipped him the bird generically. “Everyone’s slept with my brother. You’re not special.”

“I am.” The third member of world-famous folk rock band Play Not stepped through. He didn’t have a trenchcoat but his brown leather jacket was somehow even more of a statement. Grinning at the room, he made a beeline straight towards Galahad at the piano. “Shove off, slut.”

“I-- uh-- what?” Galahad floundered for a bit and then fell off the stool. 

“Dinadan,” said Gawain miserably. 

“Yeah, bitch, it’s Dinadan,” said Dinadan, rolling an arpeggio on the piano. He sniffed. “This is flat.”

“Yeah,” said Gaheris, “it hasn’t been touched in like fifty million years.”

“Neither have I, but I can still hold a tune.”

As with so many things Dinadan said, no one knew how to respond to this, so he just flashed them another brilliant smile and played something moody. “For my audition,” he proclaimed, “I will perform the entirety of Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up,” reimagined as a jazz hit.”

Before anyone could ask him to keep it under sixteen bars, he launched into what appeared to be an improvisto piano run, all the while maintaining fierce eye contact with Gawain. The problem was that as renditions of Rick Astley went, it was good. Finally he concluded with a couple of trailing grace notes, thanked everyone politely, and looked away from Gawain for the first time in four minutes. 

“We had an order,” said Priamus, trying to sound admonishing. His eyes were alight with the fires of casting inspiration.

“Fuck that,” said Iseult, slamming her sheet music down on the piano. “This is already chaos. We can only add to the fun. Hit it, Didy.”

Dinadan did. _It_ was “Without You” from _My Fair Lady_ , and Iseult spent most of her performance time making angry faces at Tristan, who did not seem to object. When she finally ended the song (and slapped Tristan for added emphasis), the room burst into applause. 

“Hot,” said Tristan. 

“I’m going to literally kill you,” said Aggravaine. 

“Hot,” said Tristan.

Before Aggravaine could lunge for him, Gaheris scooped him by the waist and yanked him away. “Bad Aggs,” he mumbled under his breath.

Tristan, like Iseult, seemed to take the audition process deadly seriously. He got very in-character. Unfortunately his character was Sweeney Todd, which no one wanted. Furthermore, no one wanted to hear him sing about pretty women. This was, however, exactly what occurred.

“Well, that’s over,” said Lynette, eventually. “Didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all.”

Elaine nodded. “The hair-stroking was a bit much.”

Priamus, for his part, was making feverish notes on his clipboard. “Alright,” he said finally. “Just Perceval and Galahad left, I think.”

“I wish to perform a cappella,” sniffed Galahad from his place on the floor next to Dinadan’s right knee. Then, before anyone could stop him, he began-- still seated-- to sing “Madamina” transposed up several keys. 

“Oh,” said Dinadan faintly, “it’s the Gawain song.”

Fortunately Galahad stuck to his sixteen bar limit and, to everyone’s consternation, they were a very impressive sixteen bars. When he finished, Perceval scooted across the floor from behind the cash register and handed his sheet music to Dinadan. 

Dinadan stared at the sheaf of papers. “This is handwritten,” he said.

“Yeah!” said Perceval. 

“It’s-- you copied the lyrics to something from _CATS_ and then rewrote the tune? Is that what happened?”

“I wanted more meow-like bits,” said Perceval. 

“God.” Dinadan peered at the cramped writing and tried a few chords. “I guess I can’t argue with that. Is this in numbered notation?”

Perceval shrugged. “It makes more sense.”

“No, no, that’s fine. Great. Uh… you’ll go places, kid. Ready when you are.”

It was a song, that much had to be said. Perhaps not the song anyone wanted, but “Mr. Mistoffelees” interspersed with aggressive pseudo-meowing was just about what they expected from Perceval. They applauded him when he finished for lack of anything else to do; only Yvain seemed to have enjoyed it.

Priamus jumped out from behind the counter, shaking his clipboard excitedly. “Great!” he said. “I’ll send you guys the cast list by tonight. Thank you all so much!”

In various states of confusion, they stumbled out of _Lionheart._ As Gawain was leaving, Priamus tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said, “I just wanted to say-- thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” A pause. “Uh… are you hugging me?”

He was. “Thank you,” he said again. 

“Uh.” There was some vague scuffling on Gawain’s part. “Yeah. ‘Course. Nice talk. Nice hug.” He made a few vague motions with his hands which might, in a poor light, have been a returning hug. Then he disentangled himself and fled. 

From: priamus.k@bologna.it.edu

To: [g.orkney@gmail.com, a.orkney@gmail.com, m.orkney@gmail.com, ga.orkney@gmail.com, gar.orkney@gmail.com, 12 more]

Subject: Spamalot Cast List!

Hi everyone, 

Thanks to all of you for auditioning. There were some hard decisions to make here! Just want to remind you all that you’re all equally valuable in my eyes and equally attractive. I didn’t make any choices based on who I have or have not slept with, or whose names sound coincidentally similar to characters. Without further ado, here is the cast list. 

ARTHUR- Tristan

THE LADY OF THE LAKE- Iseult I

ROBIN- Dinadan

LANCELOT- Gawain

GALAHAD- Galahad (Galahad)

PATSY- Lynette

BEDIVERE- Perceval

NOT-DEAD-FRED/HERBERT- Lancelot

HISTORIAN- Gareth

THE FRENCH- Mordred & Aggravaine

HERBERT’S FATHER- Gaheris

THE BLACK KNIGHT- Elaine

TIM THE ENCHANTER- Yvain

KNIGHT OF NI- Iseult II

BROTHER MAYNARD- Luned

CONCORDE- Laudine

Again, this was done entirely impartially and I’m a very professional director. If you don’t accept your part, please don’t tell me. Thank you all for being so excited about this project.

Xoxoxo Priamus ))))

“Who’s doing tech?” Aggravaine whispered into the phone he’d stolen from Gawain while the latter was playing an aggressive game of ping-pong with Gareth. He didn’t have Priamus’ number himself. “Can I be a techie? I don’t want to be French.”

“Uh… I have a techie already,” said Priamus on the other end, “but I guess you could do tech as well if you wanted.”

Aggravaine breathed out a sigh of relief. “Yes. Yes, please, anything--”

“I don’t know if you know him, his name’s Lamorak?”

Silence. “Alright,” said Aggravaine, “I’ll take the part.”

The theatre stood several blocks from the opposite side of the university, and no one was entirely certain how Priamus had managed to rent it. When Galahad asked, all he said was that people owed him favours, which was concerning but not exactly out-of-character. Unfortunately, theSouth South Amateur Dramatics Companywas currently using it for a production of _Bye-Bye Birdie_ , so they only had it very late at night on Fridays and very early in the morning on Saturdays. 

One thing had to be said for the members of world-famous folk rock band Play Not: they were talented. Between the three of them (and Lynette, who was a surprisingly compelling performer), it didn’t matter that the rest of the cast was incompetent; the leads shone. For the coffeeshop regulars, this was the only upside to working with them. Dinadan was for the most part an efficient, dedicated, and supportive cast member. But even Gareth, whose usual amiable disposition and well-established friendship led him to be more forgiving than most, grew frustrated with Tristan and Iseult. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Gawain once, not long into the rehearsal process, “but can they stop making out backstage? I mean, the rigging, is… like… we float things. It’s dangerous to mess with the ropes, right?”

“Real risky,” agreed Lamorak moodily. It was a testament to the depths of his frustration that he was willingly associating with a) actors and b) Orkneys. “If there’s a tangle in the ropes because they’ve been shenaniganising in the fly rigging, the grail could fall on someone’s head. Not joking.”

“God, I hope it hits Galahad.” Lynette chuckled under her breath. “Ballet prick. And he’s still bitter that he isn’t musical director as well.”

“I would take Galahad over Dinadan any day of the week,” Gawain stated. “I _hate_ that guy.”

Gareth squirmed a bit. He was, after all, the director of social media for world-famous folk rock band Play Not, and a good friend of each of its members. “He’s a good guy. You know what I think? I think he just makes you insecure.”

“Me? Insecure?” Laughing, Gawain swatted a hand at him. “What’s there to be insecure over? He’s just some dick with an accordion. He’s the one who hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Lynette said. If it had been anyone else talking the tone would have been reassuring; because it was her, it was mocking. “He thinks you’re, like, vapid, but he thinks most people are vapid.”

Gawain stared. “ _Vapid_?” he hissed. He pushed himself to standing. “I’ll show him _vapid_. Besides, he lives with Tristan and Iseult!” He made an attempt to storm off into another wing of the stage, disappeared for several seconds, and then scooted back towards the group at high velocity. “I just walked into Iseult and Luned doing things they should not have been doing!” he shrieked. “ _Luned_! I expected better of her!”

“You’ve hooked up with each of these people at least once,” pointed out Gareth reasonably. 

“Well, I--” Gawain opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again like an offended guppy. “I mean, Luned and I just made out a bit until she realised she was gay. That doesn’t count.”

Aggravaine groaned and flopped backwards onto the stage. “That is so far from the point you’re on another planet.”

“Don’t worry,” said Gareth, “Tristan and Iseult are in an open relationship. She wasn’t cheating.”

Lynette nudged him with her elbow. “Gare-bear, I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“You know what?” Gawain crossed his arms for extra emphasis. “I’m going to be the best goddamned Lancelot these self-righteous asshats have ever seen. I’ll show them.”

“Yeah,” said Lamorak, “have fun with that.”

“I will!” yelled Gawain, and then tripped over an extension cord and clattered to the ground in a rain of sharp elbows and curly hair. 

Gareth sighed. 

Unlike Tristan and Iseult, Dinadan was largely liked by the less musically-inclined members of the cast. He didn’t bully people for singing off-key. He was completely willing to transpose music to fit the frequently limited ranges of the singers. He worked tirelessly to draw the more reticent performers out of their shells-- notably Perceval, who he seemed to think had untapped wells of genius. 

The only problem with Dinadan was Gawain. Deep in the ecstasies of directordom, Priamus entirely failed to notice anything was wrong even as the tension escalated dramatically. At one point during the rehearsal for the Not-Dead-Fred scene, the two of them came to near blows over what Gawain described as “personally inspired acting” and Dinadan described as “a pathetic attempt to get someone to notice him.”

“Look,” Priamus cajoled, patting Gawain on the shoulder, “the line is a bit hammy already. There’s nothing wrong with leaning into that.”

Dinadan smirked. “Oh, of course not. But then again, he isn’t so much leaning into it as bending it over the kitchen counter and--”

“Oh!” cut in Gawain before he could finish. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you!”

“What, are you offended, prude?”

“ _Prude?_ ” whimpered Gawain. “You’re calling _me_ a prude? I don’t even-- I-- that’s-- you’re a real piece of work, you know that, Dinadan?”

Dinadan clasped a hand over his heart dramatically and fell to his knees. “Wounded!” he proclaimed. “Wounded grievously. Murdered by a prude.”

“You can’t say that,” Gawain spat at him. “You’re ace yourself!”

“Oh? Oh?” Dinadan jumped back up and pointed around wildly. “Are you judging me for the choices I make with my body? Are you erasing my sovereignty as a person and reducing me to my sexuality? Are you not an ally to the a-spec community?”

For once, Gawain was speechless. He seemed to have discovered previously unknown emotions such as _shame_ and _regret._

“Let’s do the song!” suggested Priamus happily. 

Galahad was in his element. He had, of course, never before been in a musical. He had also never seen one, or even listened to a soundtrack. But there was _dancing._ Galahad was of the firm opinion that all aspects of life were connected and thus, holistically, had long ago embarked on a quest to hone both his dance and musical skills in order to improve his fencing. Whether this had had the desired effect or was simply an outlet for certain deeply-buried parts of his personality was up for debate, but the results were undeniably impressive. 

“I mean, it’s good choreo,” acknowledged Aggravaine, clutching his pom-pom. He was a laker girl in the first act because he had volunteered. He was very attached to the pom-poms, and perhaps was trying to make up for his lack of participation in cheerleading activities during high school. Gawain, of course, had been cheer captain. “I like the kicks. But it’s weirdly… sexual?”

“It’s _what_?” Galahad appeared to teleport from one side of the stage to the other like a very offended banshee. “What did you say?”

“I said, uh…” Aggravaine looked at his fellow laker girls for moral support. Elaine was playing with a rubix cube and Laudine was asleep on the marley. “I said the dance moves are weirdly sexual? Like I know we’re cheerleaders… I mean, I’m fine with it, but… does the audience want to see us grope each other onstage?”

Galahad hovered over him like an angry bat. “We are not _groping_ each other _onstage_ ,” he said tetchily. “There is nothing of the sexual in ballet, only the physical.”

“Uh…” said Aggravaine, and decided it was a lost cause. “Okay. Alright.”

“I think it’s hot,” said Tristan, from his crown place in the middle of the throng. 

“Yeah,” sighed Aggravaine, “I know.”

Then there was the Herbert Situation. The Herbert Situation was only a problem if you were Lancelot, because neither Priamus nor Gawain were particularly restrained physical performers. They had, of course, asked him whether or not he wanted to do a stage kiss. 

“Uh, I mean…” Lancelot had a vague look in his eyes. “It’s necessary for the scene, right?”

“Not really,” said Gawain. 

“And if you were more comfortable with it,” added Priamus, “no one would know if you did the one where you put your thumb over the other person’s lips and kiss your hand instead of them. It would look fine.”

“I don’t think it would,” said Lancelot, “I think we have to respect the artistic integrity of the show.”

“Eric Idle didn’t,” said Dinadan lazily from his place behind the onstage piano. “Funny how these things shake out.”

Gawain rounded on him. “Literally shut the fuck up. No one asked you. No one ever asks you.”

“Oh, they ask.” Dinadan grinned. “I just say no. Do you know how to say that word?”

Shockingly, Gawain blanched. “If you don’t stop talking,” he said, “I’m going to hurt you.”

Perhaps it was something on Gawain’s face, or simply a measure of contrition, but Dinadan just smiled and returned to his vamping on the piano. If it took on a certain semblance to the opening of “Mein Herr,” no one noticed. 

“Uh..” said Lancelot, who hadn’t really heard much of that exchange. He’d been in his own world and had an objective. “So… I’m fine with doing the kiss? For artistic integrity.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Gawain. He looked as amiably carefree as always. “And for fun.”

Which was how, some weeks later, Lancelot and Gawain found themselves on a badly-constructed wedding float (which Lamorak had designed in the hopes that it would break under them and topple them to an early death), pressing each other’s lips together in a very chaste kiss. 

“Oh, come on!” yelled Priamus from the audience. “Put some oomph in it! Uh, if you’re comfortable with that, of course.”

“I’m absolutely fine with this!” Lancelot hollered back. “It’s for the artistic integrity!”

“Great!” Priamus grinned. Strictly speaking, he should perhaps have been more cautious about attempting to matchmake his on-and-off-again-friend-with-benefits with the French expat art student. But no one had ever accused him of having an abundance of caution. “Can you, like, grope his back a bit?”

There were giggles from the wings. “I want to die,” muttered Gaheris, from his place of shame under a small banner labelled “Scottland.”

“Um...” Gawain peered into the audience to look for guidance. “Which one of us?”

“Either! Both! Have fun!”

On top of the trundle, Gawain raised an eyebrow. “You’re really okay with this? Not just for artistic integrity?”

“Yeah,” said Lancelot, “not just for artistic integrity.”

They gave it another shot.

"Don't you think funny," said Dinadan one day, sprawled on top of the piano with a pencil sticking out of his mouth, "don’t you think it's funny that there are so many characters in this show that have the names of people in the cast?" 

His hands deliberate, Galahad kept shuffling his sheet music, and didn’t look up. "Yes," he said coldly, "it’s quite the coincidence." 

“Pizza night,” proclaimed Priamus, proudly. “It’s a necessity of a community theatre production.”

They stared at him. “It’s 1 AM,” said Iseult II.

“Yeah,” said Gawain, “but on the other hand, free pizza. Did you steal the pizza, Priamus?”

“I bought the pizza legally.”

“Did you steal the money for the pizza?”

Priamus pouted. “I obtained the money for the pizza in various ways, some of which were legal, kind of.”

“Stolen pizza at 1 in the morning in a building I shouldn’t be in,” said Gaheris, “hell yeah. It’s like being in high school all over again.”

“What the fuck were you weirdos doing while Gareth was running away from home?” asked Lynette. 

“Uh…” Mordred scanned his memory. “Crime, a lot of emotional repression, and Gawain was on the cheerleading team? I was in DnD club.”

“And you call _me_ a nerd,” said Galahad. 

“Look.” Priamus waved his hands to try to regrain the group’s attention. “We’re about to hit tech and I just thought it would be fun.”

Elaine nodded. “Pizza is always fun.”

“This is shitty pizza,” said Gareth, fifteen minutes later. “Really shitty. No one knows how to make good pizza anymore.”

Perceval doubled over laughing. “You sound like Kay.”

“He always sounds like Kay,” said Lynette affectionately. She reached over to ruffle his hair. “Baby Kay.”

“That’s a terrifying thought,” said Yvain. “I time my coffee runs specifically so that I don’t have to see him. You know what he said to me when I declared my major?”

The circle made inquisitive noises. 

“He said that _Gawain_ was doing a double major.” Yvain made an anguished noise. “I’m studying zoology! It’s not exactly a slacker’s choice!”

“Gawain is very proud of you and honoured to be your cousin,” said Gawain. “Gawain also wants to point out that he failed freshman Calculus, and is thus not a good meterstick against which to measure academic accomplishments.”

“Hey, hey, guys--” Gareth held out his hands. “What if I played the Historian as Kay?”

Mordred and Gaheris keeled over, shaking with laughter. “Do it!”

“He’s going to kill you,” said Gawain dryly, “but I think it might be worth it.”

“Do it, coward,” said Lynette, punching him lightly. 

“Alright, alright.” Gareth leant back on his hands and pondered. “Can anyone get me a fake moustache…?”

Tech came as tech is wont to come: with sudden panic and an increase in drama. The panic was mainly on Aggravaine’s part, whose microphone kept inexplicably slipping off. It seemed that practically every scene he needed to go find Lamorak backstage to help put it back on. It was inexplicable. Several other brief spats of chaos occurred: Yvain had a breakdown onstage; Lynette yelled at Mordred for messing up his timesteps; and Gawain got caught practicing the kiss scene under the set with Tristan instead of Lancelot.

Galahad also felt the pressure. “I’m just worried about ticket prices,” he said, pacing back and forth during a meeting between the directing team. “If we don’t price them correctly we won’t recoup the losses from the royalties.”

There was some awkward squirming on Priamus’ behalf. “Well,” he said, “the royalty losses won’t be a problem.”

Galahad stopped his pacing. “What?”

“You didn’t buy the royalties, did you,” said Dinadan mildly. 

“Well… I mean… it seemed like an unnecessary expense?”

“An unnecessary expense?” hissed Galahad. “We’ll be shut down if they find out we’re putting on a production!”

Dinadan nodded sagely. “Michael Palin himself will storm the theatre with a battering ram. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

This went entirely over the others’ heads. Priamus winced. “Is it really that bad?” 

“It’s awful!” said Galahad. 

Leaning against the microwave in the small green room, Dinadan shrugged. “It’s not great,” he said. “But I can pull some strings if you want to buy them now. It should be fine.”

“I don’t want to buy them.” Priamus slumped in his chair. “I am very small and I have no money.” Neither of these things were true.

“I think,” said Dinadan carefully, “that now is what I like to called Dinadan Time.”

The other two watched him with adequate levels of concern, in case Dinadan Time involved something dangerous like explosions or sarcasm. 

He laced his fingers together in a mock stretch and cracked his neck to one side. “I am not head of PR of world-famous folk rock band Play Not for naught,” he continued. “I’m gonna get you your royalties. And then…”

They leaned in. “And then?”

“And then we’re going to advertise to our fans.”

Priamus had faced many obstacles in his life that would have terrified a lesser man-- philosophy degrees, the law, Kay with a baseball bat and a book of OSHA regulations-- but which he had, by virtue of whatever innate edge he possessed over life at large, surpassed with nary a batted eye. Gawain knew this. It was therefore something of a surprise to find him climbing through Gawain’s bedroom window an hour before they were due to be at the theatre for opening night. 

“Help,” said Priamus, who was wearing a tuxedo, and then toppled forward over the planter. 

Gawain stared at him dispassionately. “Are you… sober?” It was worth checking.

“Yeah, yeah.” Priamus waved him off. “I’m sober. I’m also freaking out.”

“You do look a bit sweaty…” said Gawain dubiously. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you excited?”

“Am I-- of course I’m excited! I’m also _terrified._ ” Priamus slithered onto his floor like a puddle and stared at him piteously. “What do I do? Are you having stage fright?”

“I don’t have emotions,” said Gawain easily, “you know that. Don’t worry, Priamus. It’s gonna be okay. We’re actually surprisingly decent.” He reconsidered. “Well, the leads are mostly decent with the exception of me.”

“You do have a tendency to deliver most of your lines staring off into the wings,” Priamus acknowledged. “But you’ve got the right… je ne sais quoi…”

“French,” said Gawain helpfully. “Anyway, Priamus-- you’re gonna be fine. We all know our lines, Dinadan did do a good job of putting the music together, and Galahad-- well, there certainly is dancing. It doesn’t matter, anyway. People will come to see world-famous folk rock band Play Not.”

“Yeah,” said Priamus, but he looked close to tears.

Gawain paused. “Ah,” he said. “Um. Well, I mean… you did ask me to get them involved? I warned you. They kind of suck.”

“No, no, they’re really talented performers, it’s just…” Priamus flopped back onto the carpet and rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes. “I feel like it’s not my show anymore,” he said miserably.

Twisting his mouth, Gawain considered this. “Well,” he said, “you’re the visionary, right?”

Priamus made a vague, miserable humming noise and burrowed further into the carpet. 

“And you’re the one who thought up the show, and ran the auditions, and gathered everyone together?”

“I guess so…”

“And cast it, and actually got the theatre…”

Priamus opened his eyes, which was progress. “Yeah.”

“And you’re the one who got us all to rehearsal on time. I mean, it’s not like any of us wanted to wake up at 6 every Saturday for three months.”

“Hey!” He pushed himself to sitting, a small smile on his mouth. “But, yeah, I take your point.”

“Good.” Sighing, Gawain patted the covers next to him. “Do you… want a... hug?” 

Priamus nodded and flopped his way over to the bed, wrapping his arms around Gawain. They stayed like that for several seconds, quiet and still. It wasn’t unpleasant, Gawain reflected. “Just remember,” he said, the ends of Priamus’ hair tickling his nose, “you were the one who got them all to do this.”

“Right,” said Priamus, “that was me.”

Gawain smiled, but no one could see it.

“Elaine is stuck in the rigging,” said Lamorak, jogging up to Priamus and Dinadan backstage. The show had begun several minutes ago to a full house.

Priamus froze. “What?”

“Elaine,” repeated Lamorak, “is stuck in the rigging. The fly system.” “Okay,” Dinadan said, “even I didn’t see this coming. Uh… how?”

“I genuinely have no idea.” Lamorak pulled at his hair. He was dressed in all black, more as a point of aesthetic than any true commitment to the life of a techie. “If it was anyone else I would say bondage. But no. She just got there somehow. She says she tripped.”

Priamus made a sad groaning noise and crumbled onto Dinadan’s shoulder. “I should have known something would go wrong.”

“Just show business, mate,” said Dinadan absently, patting him on the shoulder. “How do we get her down?”

Gaping, Lamorak gesticulated helplessly. “I don’t know! I’m an economics major! I’m just doing this as a favour to Aggravaine and because I heard there would be free food.”

“Could we, uh…” Dinadan ran a hand through his hair and seemed to be scanning his mental bank of fly system knowledge. “Could we just kind of… drop her? Onstage?”

“In the middle of the show?” said Priamus incredulously. “In the middle of my beautiful show?”

“Yeah, in the middle of your beautiful show. Uh… are there any scenes where we could kind of chuck Elaine down and have her be caught? Does that make sense anywhere?”

“She needs to be onstage as a laker girl soon!” said Priamus. He looked very near hyperventilation. 

“The show must go on, babe,” said Dinadan. “Okay, Lamorak, get Lancelot for me. He’s tall and stronk like good Russian man.”

Lamorak nodded and darted behind a wing, reemerging several seconds later with a rather shaky Lancelot in tow. “What now?” he asked. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen. Elaine can hold tight for five minutes, right?”

“Well, it’s not like she’s going to wander off,” said Lamorak. 

Laughing, Dinadan patted them both on the shoulders. “Good enough. Lancelot, you’re on in five as Fred. I need you to do a kind of delirious looking up thing. It’s very important that you look up because as soon as me and Gawain do our bit with the dead bodies, Lamorak is going to set the fly system to swing down and you need to catch Elaine. Can you do that?”

“Uh, I think I’m maybe going to throw up from stage fright--”

“Great, knew I could count on you.” Dinadan grinned. Scarily, he seemed to be riding the chaos like a particularly cynical adrenaline junky. 

“So what’s my cue?” asked Lamorak. “To drop her, I mean.”

His eyes bright, Dinadan spread his hands. “Once the music starts,” he said, “and no matter what, the band will play on.”

The Elaine catapult was, by the standards of hurling performers across the stage on improvised rigging, much more of a success than _Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark._ This was not a high bar. Lancelot managed to catch Elaine but stumbled backwards into the cart of dead bodies and also Dinadan, all of whom sprawled onto the floor in an undignified heap. Elaine rolled the furthest across the stage and wound up under the piano and in what Galahad called his “special magic bubble.” Halfway through the first verse of “I Am Not Dead Yet” (of which Lancelot had not yet managed to sing any), the audience could hear a very tetchy voice saying “get out of the bubble, Elaine, get out of the bubble,” until she rolled offstage like a sea cucumber. 

“Art,” said the town newspaper critic, sitting in the front row with a box of Kleenex, “the world of theatre never ceases to amaze me. Bold choices! Bold choices.”

As Priamus had foretold all those months ago, Gawain was in some respect fundamentally built to perform a mostly naked disco YMCA number in front of a large audience. His most basic qualification was an abject lack of shame, but the experience in gyrating suggestively at his friends was an added boon. It was fortunate that Lancelot’s Herbert costume involved an extensive amount of face makeup, because the experience lured out in him certain emotions he was quite glad were not visible. As they finished “His Name Is Lancelot,” the two of them frozen for applause, Gawain whispered out of the side of his mouth: “You still okay with the kiss?”

“Uh,” said Lancelot, and was very glad he had an excuse not to look him in the face, “yeah.”

“That was a huge success!” screamed Priamus backstage, once they had finally emerged from bows. “Holy shit! Holy shit, you guys, we actually did it! We fucking did it! I got-- look-- someone gave me roses!”

“That was me,” said Gareth helpfully. “I thought it would be nice.”

“It was nice,” said Priamus, looking near tears. “Thank you, Gareth. Thank you.”

There was a clattering noise from the stairs, and Lynette burst into the greenroom. “Guys!” she yelled. “Guys, Dinadan just asked me if I wanted to do some recording with them for the next album!”

There was an appreciative round of whoops. Lynette, high on adrenaline and unexpected musical success, launched herself across the room and enveloped Gareth in a hug. The two of them went over backwards. 

“What is it with all you weirdos and hugging?” said Gawain to the room at large. 

“Would you prefer kissing?” said Priamus, to a chorus of groans. 

Gaheris buried his face in Aggravaine’s shoulder. “And we’re back to normal,” he said, his voice muffled. “It was good while it lasted.”

“Yeah,” said Lancelot. He had been quiet ever since the finale. “But some things never change.”

And later, Priamus and Gawain sat at the beleaguered window box, gazing at the stars, and passed a greasy bag of french fries back and forth. 

“Well,” said Gawain, “you got your show. Did you enjoy it?”

Priamus reflected. “I did,” he said. “It was maybe the scariest thing I’ve ever done, but… yeah. That was really special. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The stars glinted down, and Gawain gave him a nebulous sliver of a half-smile. “I know,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment i sold my soul for this


End file.
